


Second Chances

by lady_wordsmith



Series: Steve's Diary Tetralogy [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, F/M, Heavy Angst, Maybe - Freeform, Maybe all a dream, Or Is It?, Reader-Insert, Romance, Second Chances, maybe something more sinister, twist ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6645403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_wordsmith/pseuds/lady_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5802127">Steve's Diary</a>.</p><p>It’s been a year since Steve died, and you’re still grieving. Something happens, and you find yourself given a second chance to make things right. But is it all as it seems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> Remember how I said I was sorry about _Steve's Diary_? I'm even sorrier about this one.

You should have been alone. You still had a hard time believing you deserved anyone’s sympathies over Steve’s death. They could have ignored you, could have left you to face your grief alone. You were Steve’s widow, but only by virtue of legal technicalities. His friends owed you nothing.

But they had stayed. All of them. Checking on you, taking you out to occupy you, making sure you were okay.  Even Tony, which you both acknowledged was weird. Tony had apologized once when you pointed this out, and offered to grab your ass so that status quo was maintained, and both of you had laughed until you cried. It was the only time you had seen Tony cry, and he told you to keep it to yourself, but the small smiles you had exchanged let you know he wasn’t too worried.

“It’s okay to miss him, Tony. I do, too. I just… don’t feel like I deserve to.” Tony was the only one you would dare to confess this to, because you knew he would understand. He and Steve were friends, but they had had friction in their relationship, and you knew Tony understood what it was like to feel at odds with conflicting emotions in the wake of Steve’s death.

Tony had only nodded, and the discussion was over. Still, it gave you a small measure of comfort to know that someone got it.

Natasha was over at your apartment the most, and you knew she probably still felt bad about the whole diary thing. You had tried telling her once not to feel bad, that the diary was only a thing even if it was Steve’s, but you knew that it was just more guilt Natasha felt she had to carry. You had offered to let her read it once, but she shook her head and told you that she didn’t need to. When you asked her why, she just smiled and told you that the one that needed Steve’s words the most was you.

Sam was as kind and genial as he had ever been, but sometimes you got the feeling he was trying to counsel you like he did with his groups and clients at the VA, and you would lash out at him for it. You were a lot angrier at first, but the anger had given way to sadness and eventually weariness. You told Sam that you already had a therapist, it didn’t help much anyway, and the last thing you wanted was to talk about your guilt and you were quite content shoving it down and ignoring it, thank you.

He still tried, bless him. It made you wonder sometimes, just how many people Steve had made arrangements with in the wake of something happening. It was as though he knew you would need a lot of people around you, people who knew him and you and would be able to help in their own, sometimes fumbling ways.

At least one of you had known the other well. After you had read the diary, sometimes you felt like you hadn’t known Steve at all.

Bucky had been the hardest to encounter in the wake of Steve’s death. You avoided him for months. Finally, he had shown up at your apartment, where you couldn’t ignore him. He had two to-go cups with him and a box of doughnuts.

“I can stand out here all night, but this stuff’s going to get cold.” He told you through your front door.

“How did you even get in?” you asked, opening the door. Normally visitors had to be buzzed up.

“Steve’s set of keys. He still had them when he left.” He said as he set his things on your kitchen table.

“So you could have just come in. Why knock?”

Bucky looked at you with an incredulous expression. “You’re my best friend’s wife. Means you deserve respect. So does any woman, but you especially.”

“Was.” You corrected him. He looked at you questioningly. “I _was_ your best friend’s wife. We were getting a divorce when he died, Bucky.”

Bucky gave a slight snort at that. “Stupid punk. Had to go and die before he could set it right.” He looked at you with that questioning look in his eye. “No one told you?”

“Told me what?”

Bucky sighed and muttered something about Steve being a stupid punk again. He ran a hand through his hair, a conflicted expression on his face. Finally, he spoke.

“We spent the time before the mission telling Steve how fucking stupid he was being. Me and Sam, mostly. But everyone chimed in. Told him you just don’t quit something without talking it out, at least, and that texting shit wasn’t talking it out. He was going to talk to you, when he got back. Withdraw the divorce papers, tell you the shit he wrote in the diary-“

“You know about the diary?” you interrupted him.  Bucky gave a short laugh at that.

“Yeah. He wrote it for you, said you two had some conversation about it? Thought you knew. Didn’t realize until Nat gave it to you at the funeral you had no idea. Stupid fucking punk. Springing shit on you like that. Should raise him from the dead ‘n’ kick his ass.”

“Don’t do that.” You said without thinking as you walked over to the kitchen table and sat down.

Bucky handed you one of the to-go cups. You took a sip, expecting coffee and being surprised when the flavor of your favorite tea hit your tongue. Bucky smiled a little at your surprise, reaching into the box of doughnuts to pull out your favorite and hand it to you.

“Steve told me it was your favorite; that you hated coffee because it gets you too wired. He told me just about all your favorites. He drilled me on that sort of stuff. ‘Someone’s gotta know this stuff about her if something happens to me, Buck. Someone has to be able to get her all the stuff she likes without being told what to get and when.’ Told me that a lot.” Bucky sits in the empty chair across from yours and give you a brittle smile. “I think he knew. Just didn’t expect it to happen at the worst possible time. He’d kick his _own_ ass for that.”

It was quiet for a while as you picked at your doughnut and sipped your tea, while Bucky sipped his coffee. Finally, Bucky put down his coffee and spoke.

“You don’t have to avoid me, you know. I’m not mad at you. Mad at _him_ sometimes for the fucking colossal levels of stupidity he showed in the whole situation and the way he left you without any closure, but I was never mad at you.”

“I’m only his widow because-“

“I _told_ you, he was withdrawing the divorce papers. Don’t give me that shit you give everyone else. You’re his widow, and the only reason you shouldn’t be is because he should still be here.” Bucky told you, the tone of his voice brooking no argument. It didn’t even waver when he said Steve should still be here.

It was enough to bring tears to your eyes, but you refused to let them fall because the last thing you wanted to do was to cry and make things awkward.

“I miss him so much, Bucky.” You finally managed to say.

 “I know. I miss him, too.” The sincerity on Bucky’s face was too much. The floodgates had finally opened and Bucky held you as you cried.

Time passed, and before you knew it, it had been a whole year that Steve was dead. You had no idea what to do as the date approached, and were thankful when Tony and Pepper told you that they were arranging a small get-together of Steve’s friends at the tower.

You’re getting ready for it. It’s taking forever to decide what to wear. You’re sick of black and nothing felt appropriate. You sigh and look over at the picture of you and Steve on your bedside table. One of your wedding photos, you were looking at the camera with a bright smile but Steve was looking at you, his gaze reverent. It makes your heart ache sometimes to see it, but you can’t bear to take it down, either.

You turn back to the closet, fumbling for the light switch you put in to make it easier to go through your clothes.

* * *

 

You blink. Something isn’t right. Too much white, everything was bright and you were lying down. Groaning, you try to sit up as you blink, only to be hit by a giant wave of familiar pain that keeps you pinned.

Your first thought is the miscarriages, like being ripped apart from the waist down. But that makes no sense. Your eyes finally fully open, and you realize you’re lying in a hospital bed. Your first worry is that you missed the get-together for Steve. You look to your left in order to try and see if you brought your cell phone with you.

You startle as you see him. No. But there he is, sitting in a chair beside your hospital bed, looking at you with worry. _He looks like he hasn’t slept for days_ , you think, your mind trying to process what was happening. You open your mouth, try to talk, fail. You lick your lips and try again.

“Steve?” Your heart is racing, and your first instinct is to run, but you’re too weak, and you have no idea why or how any of this is happening.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice on the edge of tears. “You’re awake. Thank God.”

“I-Where am I? What are you doing here?” you ask. Your head is swimming.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay?” he’s asking, the worry even more evident in his eyes. “You’re in the hospital. Don’t try and move, they have you on IVs and they might have to do another transfusion-“

“Transfusion?” The room seems to move with you as you try and sit up again. It makes you dizzy.

“Do you need the doctor? I can call a nurse-“

“Steve.” You whisper as you fall back onto the hospital bed, and he grabs your hand, holding it gently in his. “What’s going on? I’m scared…”

Steve hesitates for a long time. It makes you worry that he’s so silent, and even though you have no idea why he’s sitting at your bedside alive, you need him to speak. It’s not enough that he’s there, you’ve had to spend a year without his voice and you need it, you need him to say something, anything-

“You lost the baby, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” And in an instant, the noises in your head asking questions and being confused go absolutely quiet.

“The baby? But… Steve, what day is it?”

He tells you.

And you reel as you realize that the date matches the time frame of your final miscarriage before your marriage collapsed.

* * *

 

You don’t understand. Could the events that led to your marriage ending and Steve’s death all have been some vivid, blood loss induced dream? That makes no sense. You’d never had that happen with any of the previous miscarriages. Of course, none had been this bad. You had never needed a transfusion the only other time you passed out, when you had your third. Normally, the miscarriages were quiet, devastating affairs you were totally awake for.

But still… A dream couldn’t be that real, that vivid.

Could it?

“They want to do tests, sweetheart.” You hear Steve saying. “On us. I already gave them permission to do tests on… on the baby.”

You remember this part. He had talked, and you had stayed quiet. You couldn’t remember if it was because you were too weak, or because of all the emotions. Sorrow, pain, anger. Anger at God, at Steve, at yourself. You weren’t going to be quiet now. Even if those events had been a dream, you wouldn’t act the same way. You couldn’t.

“They should have done the tests a long time ago.” You tell Steve. “After the second baby we lost. No reason to put us through all this pain over and over.”

He looks at you, and you realize for the first time his eyes are shining with tears. He manages to whisper your name, and you squeeze his hand, still holding yours.

“I hate this.” You tell him. “Hate the way I keep putting you through this.” It’s true. You never told him that, before or in the weird dream-thing that still confuses you, and you didn’t want it to be unsaid.

“Don’t think like that.” He tells you. “I’m your husband, sweetheart. I’m supposed to be here with you when you go through this.” He pauses. “If I could take all this pain away from you, I would.”

You shake your head, but it makes you dizzy. “I… Can we talk, later? ‘M…”

Steve nods. You remember him insisting you needed your rest a lot after the miscarriages. You hadn’t really appreciated it, before.

“Love you, Steve. So much.” You tell him, as your eyelids flutter and you relax onto the hospital bed as much as you can.

You didn’t tell him that, either.

“And I love you, sweetheart. Just rest, okay? We’ll figure every…” He’s still talking when you go to sleep, but you don’t worry about it too much. You know that the two of you will talk when you wake up. Maybe the weird, long dream thing was a warning. But you’re too tired now to think.

* * *

 

It feels familiar, and it doesn’t.

The last time this happened (or did it? You don’t know anymore), you had been so closed off in your grief that Steve had barely been a thought. At least at first, at least until the resentment and anger set in.

He’s there again when you wake. He’s changed into different clothes, which tells you that he at least went home for a shower and clothes. He looks no better, otherwise, like sleep is a foreign concept.

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” you ask him, sitting up in bed with great difficulty.

 “Three days…four. I don’t know.” He tells you, trying to conceal a yawn. “Can’t go to sleep.”

“Even super soldiers need sleep, last I checked.” You say, managing a small smile he returns.

You hadn’t had this conversation, before. You mostly slept or pretended to, to avoid him. He left sometimes, but you were sure it was only for a quick shower and change or to visit the hospital chapel.

His eyes are bright even like this, you think. You missed it, missed him so much.

“Can’t sleep, not without you. Not when you’re like this.” He tells you, and you notice his eyes look far away now, like he’s somewhere else. “On missions I worry, but this… this is different. I can’t sleep without knowing you’re okay.”

You let out an annoyed sigh, but smile slightly to let him know you’re not too mad. You look to both sides of you. On your right side, you’re hooked up to IVs, but the left, where Steve is sitting, is bare. You slide over to the right, closer to the IVs, and pat the place on the bed beside you. When Steve looks at you in confusion, you pat the empty space on the bed harder.

“Damn it, Steve.” You say, without malice. “A dog would understand it.”

He hesitates, but after a moment slides into the hospital bed next to you. You carefully wrap your arms around him, taking care not to jostle the IV. You slide a hand in his hair and run your fingers through it. You smile when he lets out a contented sigh.

“Get some sleep, babe.” You tell him. “I’m right here, so you don’t have to worry.”

His eyelids flutter, but he’s out like a light as you keep talking to him in a low, steady voice. “Love you so much, Steve. I couldn’t do this without you. It’ll be okay, I promise. We’ll get through it…”

You stare at him as he sleeps. His face looks so calm and relaxed, like beside you his worries are gone. You kiss his temple, and he smiles unconsciously and moves closer to you.

His funeral had been a closed casket, you think. You hadn’t gotten a chance to see his face one last time. You still weren’t sure how you felt about it. Bucky had said that Steve’s face had been messed up, but refused to give you details, only telling you that it was better you hadn’t seen him like that. You think Bucky just wanted your last memory of Steve not to be as a body in a casket. Sometimes you agreed, sometimes you didn’t. Your last memory of Steve was of a fight, a door closing. Was that better? You still didn’t know.

Steve only sleeps for a couple hours, but it’s enough to reenergize him a bit. He’s reluctant to move out of the bed, but he moves back to the chair, refusing to let go of your hand.

“Nurse came by while you were out.” You tell him, which makes him blush. “She said I’d be here overnight, but they’re letting me go in the morning.”

It’s weird, it’s all weird. You look at him, biting your lip.

“I thought… I had this really weird dream after I passed out.” You tell him. You tell him everything: the collapse of your marriage, your separation, his death, the diary. “When I came to here, in the hospital, I saw you and wanted to run. It felt so real, Steve…”

“It was just a dream, sweetheart. I promise. That won’t happen, any of it.” He smiles even as he reassures you. “Even if certain things happen, I promise I won’t pull away from you. You need me just as much as I need you. I love you so much, no matter what, okay? I love you, I married you, and I won’t leave you ever if I can help it, and never like that.”

“And the diary?” you ask him, wondering if that was just something your brain picked up from that one conversation and held onto.

Steve chuckles. “I do have a diary, and it is because of what you said. I never meant to hide it. You’re welcome to look at it when we get home, honey.”

You shake your head. “No,” you tell him. “I just wondered.”

It’s the first hint you have that something’s off. Steve never mentioned that diary before for a reason.

* * *

 

The tests come back inconclusive. It makes you angry, but you tell yourself that the events you had seen were only a dream, and that it was no way indicative of the reality.

At least that’s what you told yourself. But like the diary, it’s another thing you keep in the back of your head. No woman has five miscarriages in a row without something being wrong.

You mention the possibility of Steve’s being modified by the super serum creating some kind of incompatibility resulting in an immune response from your body, but the doctors all shake their heads and say they can’t find a reason.

Steve doesn’t discount it when you tell him, but even he seems blasé about it. He tells you that the two of you can just keep trying.

It’s worse than the adoption suggestion from the dream-thing.

“Keep trying? Steve, I almost died last time. I needed transfusions, I would have bled to death on our kitchen floor-“

Steve’s eyes widen at the way you raise your voice, and then he places his hands on your shoulders and looks you in the eye.

“I know, sweetheart. I was there, remember? I called 911; I was so scared when it happened…”

That doesn’t sound right. He hadn’t been there when you collapsed. He found you after.

“What? You went to lunch with Bucky and Sam that day.” You don’t mention that he didn’t call 911, either, he had gathered you in his arms and ran all the way to the hospital.

“I know, sweetheart, but I found you and I was there.” He sounds like he’s backpedaling, but the sort of backpedaling a person will do without realizing it. Whatever it is, he doesn’t sound like himself. It’s too smooth, and Steve was always a shitty liar.

“I… I know.” You say, letting your fight drain out of you for now. He’s trying, and it’s all so stressful, and you’re just so frazzled that nothing is making sense.

“You need to rest, sweetheart.” And he leads you to your bed and tucks you in. “When you get some sleep, everything will be better, I promise.”

* * *

 

Steve doesn’t suggest trying again. He gives you space, but unlike the dream, he explains it.

“Your body needs to heal, sweetheart.” He tells you one night after you try to make an overture and he turns you down. “When the doctors give us the okay, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

It sounds like bullshit. But at least he explains it and doesn’t just leave you in the dark thinking you’re disgusting and repulsive to him.

“You better.” You tell him, sliding off of him and lying on your side of the bed. He tries to spoon you but you shrug him away. “No, Steve. Spooning equals physical contact equals things we can’t do right now.”

You don’t sound angry, but you are. You let the anger simmer when Steve laughs, kisses the back of your neck, and moves back to his side of the bed.

Steve would have never done that, either before the dream or in the dream itself. He would have tried talking to you, asking a million times if you were okay, or even just giving you that damned _look_ , but he would never have simply given up an opportunity to be physically close to you. Even in the darkest days, you would sometimes wake up to find him cuddling you, even if sex was nonexistent. To brush off your rebuff, especially considering you had just tried to seduce him not even a minute prior? No, that was not Steve’s style at all.

It’s all wrong. The diary, the test results, Steve’s behavior… It’s all weird and messed up and none of it makes sense. You keep thinking back to that dream and what happened, and you wonder if you’re letting it cloud your judgment.

It doesn’t stop you from thinking _something_ is off. Maybe that dream thing wasn’t your life, but this doesn’t feel like it, either. Something is wrong, but you have no idea what. The phrase ‘glitch in the Matrix’ springs to your mind, but that seems ridiculous.

You keep your thoughts to yourself. If you’re not careful, you could say the wrong thing to the wrong person and it’s straight to a psych ward. You know that you’d probably be cut a little slack with the recent miscarriage and all, but if you insisted that life wasn’t real because life wasn’t following some script of a dream you had…

You weren’t crazy.

* * *

 

There are two things that clinch the fact you’re not going crazy and that something is wrong. The first thing is the diary.

Steve’s away on a mission when you go on a search in your apartment for the diary. You find it in his bedside table. Mistake number one: Steve had always kept the diary under the bed, even when he was living with you. They found it under the bed when he died, and there had been numerous references in the diary itself to keeping it under the bed:

> **I sometimes worry about her finding this, reading it. I don’t know how to explain my fears to her, all these thoughts in my head. She would understand, I think, but… I don’t know. I don’t want to hide anything, but I just can’t explain these fears in words, at least not ones I can speak. And I don’t want her worrying about me, either. She has enough to worry about.**
> 
> **I keep this diary under the bed because I know it’s the one place she won’t look. We don’t keep anything else under there, and she has no reason to go looking.**
> 
> **It feels like I’m lying. I know I am. Just more guilt for the pile.**

You’re not crazy.

The diary is a regular spiral bound notebook. Mistake number two. Steve had purposely chosen the diary to look like one of his regular sketchbooks, unremarkable and ordinary in relation to himself. A spiral notebook would be out of place among his things, unless it was that memo pad of his. Even then, that was a memo pad for his list. Anything like that for his most personal thoughts? That was not Steve.

Mistake number three hits when you actually read the diary. It doesn’t read like Steve at all, the memories are all wrong. An entry about seeing your dress before the wedding is the major tipoff:

 

> **_She was laughing and smiling as she unzipped the garment bag. Telling me she had tried on a million dresses before she found this one. She’s always critical of the things she wears. Everything has to be immaculate and perfect, and I can see that she would be ten times as critical about her wedding dress._ **
> 
> **_It’s perfect, though. Every inch of it is so obviously and perfectly her. She’s going to look perfect at our wedding._ **

 

You _knew_ he had never seen your dress before the walk down the aisle. You sure as hell never _showed_ him the dress. You had always teased him about it, knowing he would never say yes, that he wanted to preserve the surprise. Maybe it was a dash of old-fashioned sensibilities combined with Steve’s secret inner romantic, but he wanted to see you wearing that dress for the first time as you walked down the aisle toward him.

And you hadn’t been that picky about the damn dress, anyway. You remembered going with Natasha and Wanda, telling the employee at the dress shop that you had three requirements: it couldn’t be strapless (that was just begging for a wardrobe malfunction, and anyway you liked your shoulders covered), it had to either zip up or button up the back (because as super-soldiery as Steve as now, you were _not_ torturing the man with the lace-up corset back dresses), and, most important, it couldn’t be too long or, in your words “fuffy” (your exact words had been “I don’t want a fuffy sort of dress that requires an entourage accompanying me if I have to pee, okay?” which made Wanda and Natasha giggle as the sale associate tried valiantly to keep it together). All in all, you tried on maybe four dresses and were in and out in an hour, Nat saying something about you being the most boring bride she had ever seen. Wanda had concurred.

“Reality television _lied_ to me!” Wanda declared, which had made the three of you almost break down laughing.

It was all wrong. Every part. This wasn’t Steve, and this wasn’t your life.

* * *

 

The second and most damning thing hadn’t been that large in the grand scheme. But it was the tipping point. It was the point where everything had fallen apart.

Coffee. Fucking coffee, of all things, had been the thing that ripped everything open.

You were with Steve, Natasha, and Bucky at a coffeeshop. Steve had volunteered to get drinks for everyone while you and the other two found seats. Bucky and Natasha gave Steve their orders, and then he turned to you.

“My usual, babe. My favorite.” You said. He didn’t know it, but with all the evidence you had collected, it was a test.

Steve just smiled and laughed. “Of course, sweetheart.” He said, giving you a quick kiss to the temple and walking up to the counter.

You and Natasha found a table, and the two of you waited with Bucky while Steve went for your drinks. He returned quickly, giving Bucky and Natasha their orders, before handing you yours.

You don’t remember what he called it. You just remember it was some overcomplicated coffee order that was barely a coffee. Still, sometimes Steve liked to tease you about liking your favorite tea, sometimes ordering it and telling you it was a black coffee or some caramel chocolate latte monstrosity.

You take a sip. It takes everything you have not to spit it back out.

You had planned for this. You had planned to swallow it, maintain composure, and calmly blow the lid off of whatever the unholy fuck this whole thing was.

You placed the cup back on the table, and looked at your husband and two friends with steely eyes.

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on here? Maybe stop the bullshit?” you say.

Natasha and Bucky don’t even react. Steve, on the other hand, his eyes go wide and he seems to freeze.

“Now, I was willing to let a lot of things go. The test results. You not remembering the actual circumstances of my miscarriage. I was even willing to let go of the fact your entire personality seemed to change. But when you can’t even keep your diary a secret or remember that I hate coffee?” You snorted. “You’re not Steve, at the very least. Maybe the whole world here isn’t real, judging from the fact our two friends have been sitting here stone-faced and barely moving the entire time.”

You stand up. The entire coffeehouse seems to have stopped.

“Maybe this is like _The Matrix_? Nah, I’m betting some like some even more twisted version of _Vanilla Sky_. Or maybe it’s like that episode of _Supernatural_ , with the djinn? You want to clue me in here, ‘Steve?’” You ask.

Steve stands up. He takes a step towards you, arms outstretched, but you’re quick.

Steve had always wanted you protected and safe even when he wasn’t there. That’s why he insisted on you getting a gun and being proficient with it. Your nice little .38 Special revolver, something you and Steve had chosen together when you moved in together.

The gun now pointed at Steve, locked and loaded and ready for you to pull the trigger.

“Tell me who the fuck you really are!” you demand.

He fucking smiles. It’s not the sort of smile Steve would give you, it’s the smile of an enemy who knows (or at least thinks) he has you beat.

“Sweetheart, put the gun down.” He says. “I’m sorry this isn’t perfect. Tell me what’s wrong, and it will be made better.”

You keep the gun pointed at him, your finger on the trigger.

“Isn’t this better? You have a second chance. Steve’s _\- I’m_ alive, you’re still married. This entire world is your oyster. I can retire as Captain America, we can travel the world.” The imposter says, smiling all the while. “You can even have that baby the two of you desperately wanted. You can have two or three of them, even. As many as you want. Everything you want.”

You’re not even aware of it, but your hand is trembling, wavering.

“It’s not real.” You say, and your voice sounds foreign to your own ears.

“But reality is so disappointing, isn’t it? You have nothing there. Do you?”

“Shut up!” and you wave the gun again.

“This can be real. Just give me the gun, sweetheart. Give me the gun and let yourself forget that old life. That disappointing life.” And the imposter reaches for the gun.

You’re too quick again, stepping away. But when you stop, your posture and position are different. Now you’re pointing the gun under your own chin.

“And if I do this?” you ask. “They say if you die in dreams you die in real life. Tell me, ‘Steve,’ what will this do? Will it shatter the illusion?”

“Sweetheart-“

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!” You scream, pressing the gun against your chin in grim determination. “YOU’RE NOT HIM!”

“But he left you. He left instead of fighting for his marriage, and then he went and died on you. The reality is, there, in the so-called real world? He didn’t really love you at all, did he? At least not enough to stay.”

The imposter steps forward again.

“Give me the gun, sweetheart.”

* * *

 

Bucky fires off another shot as he looks around the facility. When you hadn’t shown up for Steve’s memorial, everyone knew something was wrong right away. You would never have missed the memorial. Calls to your phone went unanswered, and it was clear something was seriously wrong.

When Bucky and Sam had gone to your apartment to talk to you, there had been no answer and Bucky had had to use Steve’s keys to get in. Inside your apartment, there was a trail of wreckage leading to your closet, and a small pool of blood.

Bucky had feared the worst. He had promised Steve he would look after you. They all had.  It wasn’t that you were some fragile flower who needed protecting, but Steve had told them that you had a tendency to hide within yourself, not reaching out when you needed help.  You built walls and tried to keep everything in.

Your abduction had easily been tracked to a HYDRA facility. That put Bucky on the alert as he and Sam had prepared to storm the facility. Natasha and Wanda had joined them, but Bucky feared that they would be too late, that HYDRA had tortured and killed you or done something to you that made you not you anymore.

He couldn’t fail you, and he couldn’t fail Steve. Not again.

Sam calls over the comm link, saying that he had found you.

“She’s hooked up to some kind of machine, I don’t know. There’s wires everywhere and shit.”

“I’ll be right there.” Bucky says, firing off another shot at a HYDRA operative before making his way over to the part of the facility Sam was directing him to.

Natasha and Wanda are already there. Wanda’s watching you on the cot you’re strapped down to; Bucky knows she’s doing whatever it is she does. Nat’s reading a computer screen, trying to disconnect you from the machine.

“They have her in an illusion.” Wanda says finally. “I’m not sure what kind.”

“Can you break it?” Bucky asks. Wanda shrugs.

“I can try. Every time I get close, I have to put away.” She says, looking to Nat. “Something’s blocking me.”

“I’ll shut down the program; you try and pull her out, Wanda.” Nat tells her.

It takes all of Natasha’s and Wanda’s skills, but finally the machine shuts off. You still haven’t moved.

“I couldn’t pull her out,” Wanda says. “I just made the world stop as much as I could. She was confronting one of the illusions when I had to pull out of her head.”

Bucky nods. He wants to tell Wanda it’s all right, that she did the best she could, but he’s too busy watching you, waiting for signs of life.

Your eyelids flutter. Bucky holds his breath. When you finally move to sit up, he almost cheers.

“Where… Where am I?” you ask, raising a hand to cradle your head.

“You were stuck in an illusion HYDRA created. We got you out. You’re back in the real world now.” Sam says.

None of them expect you to tear up the way you do, or to look at them like they just committed the biggest betrayal in the world. They certainly don’t expect the words that come out of your mouth.

“You should have left me there.”

**Author's Note:**

> Confused about the difference between the two diary entries? the regular bolded entry is an entry from the real diary, the bolded italic one is an entry from the fake one. Kind of a visual clue that something isn't right.


End file.
